


Leaves from the Shoikan Grove

by Esteliel



Category: Dragonlance - Weis and Hickman
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 20:08:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four ficlets detailing how Raistlin and Dalamar first met and how their relationship develops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This series of ficlets is something I wrote several years ago, back when Dragons of Summer Flame was the latest Dragonlance novel. Therefore, it does not take into account any of the books which have recently been published and shed more light on both Raistlin's and Dalamar's past.

"Enough of this quarrelling!" With an imperious wave of his hand, Raistlin stopped the mages' dispute. "I have not come here because of your petty fears!" Leaning upon his staff, which was adorned by a ball held by a dragon's claw that started to glow softly at his words, he turned around. His gaze fell on a woman clad in the same black robes that enfolded his fragile body.

"Ladonna..." A smile lightened his face, yet still his eyes lost none of their sharpness. And the woman realised that, as she could not suppress the clenching of her hands. The young wizard continued to smile warmly as if he had not seen anything, yet there was a touch of triumph in his voice when he addressed her. "I have come here because of your letter. I hope that the cause of all this is still present?" When Ladonna simply nodded, he laughed softly.

"Would you be so kind then as to at least tell me his name?" he asked with biting sarcasm, but then all of a sudden a fit of coughing seized his body. With the last of his energy he managed to fend off the help of a hastily approaching white robe, only to stare at the mages while he was still trembling and clutching his staff.

Nobody dared to speak, until Ladonna finally sighed and reluctantly admitted, "His name is Dalamar, the dark elf." She nodded to a young black mage who went to the door, all the while watching Raistlin fearfully. Inside came another black robe, his face hidden by his hood. Slowly he approached Ladonna and Raistlin, then bowed first before the head of the black robes, then before the sickly young mage. With a final graceful movement, delicate white hands brushed back the hood to reveal an elven face with features that were just as delicate, framed by long black hair. The noble lineaments - together with the perfect white skin, the long black lashes and the rosy lips - clearly showed his heritage.

"A Silvanesti?" Raistlin smiled again. "How fitting..."

Dalamar shook his head slightly. "No, Master, no longer..." he objected softly, although his voice was full of respect. "I am a dark elf, banned from the light and without a home." For a moment, there was uncontrollable rage burning in the slightly slanted eyes, immediately destroying the impression of gentleness that the delicate figure might give to an observer.

Raistlin approached him. With one hand resting on the elf's shoulder, he pulled him closer to look into his eyes. Dalamar shuddered when he found the brightly golden gaze studying him. Only now did he realise the cause of the fear the mage's regard awoke in him: pupils formed like hourglasses held him immobile, pervading his thoughts, his mysteries, until there seemed to be nothing left of him but the certainty that he knew, that he had to know...

"Very well... apprentice!" Raistlin whispered in amusement. Dalamar was still shivering, and the grip of the black mage hardened for a moment. "Never forget with whom your loyalties now lie," he warned, while his all-knowing eyes once again held those of the elf.

"Only with you, Shalafi... with you and the magic!" Dalamar answered in rapture. His heart was beating hard in his breast, pumping his blood faster and faster through his body until he felt a slight dizziness at the thought of being allowed to study with the greatest mage of his time, the most powerful of all.

Raistlin nodded, and then he was suddenly coughing again, this time so hard it shook his body. Forcing himself to breathe painfully, he straightened after several moments and took out a piece of cloth to dab at the blood on his lips.

"I'll await you in two days," he whispered hoarsely, then he gripped Dalamar's chin with one hand and pulled the elf's face down to him. Slowly, his lips moved over the forehead of his new apprentice, soundlessly whispering words that burned like fire on the skin of the elf. Dalamar stood still with fear and let the mage do whatever it was he wanted.

Finally, the man looked at him again and murmured, "This will enable you to walk through the forest of Shoikan... if you are determined enough." Then he leaned forward again, and Dalamar's eyes widened when Raistlin's lips gently touched his. They were warm and soft, the dark elf could feel the amused smile on them. The grip on his chin softened, was almost tender now, and then suddenly the lips of the mage vanished. Dalamar almost regretted losing the warmth, but the soft voice whispering in his ear distracted him. "So that the guardians of the tower know that you are mine... They don't harm my property."

Raistlin, Master of the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas and Master of Past and Present, turned around and left the conclave of the mages without another word, his eyes gleaming in amusement. Immediately the voices of the other mages began to rise in confusion and anger, only Dalamar stood motionless, and touched his lips in wonder, feeling some of the blood of the black mage on them.


	2. Nuitari's Light

Nuitari was already high up in the sky when the mage finished his experiment. The light of the moon only visible to those wearing the black robes was falling into the strange room at the top of the tower of Palanthas. Mysterious tools were laid out on the table, their scent speaking darkly of decay and death. The rose petals seemed almost like a mockery with their sweet fragrance, yet they too were tools in the hands of the mage, were - like the scattered night-lilies - responsible for whatever horrible arts this room had seen.

But the mage's work was done, the magic long gone, and now all that remained was an exhausted, trembling body whose golden skin and strangely intimidating eyes were the only visible difference to any other normal human being. Even the silver runes which embroidered his black robe looked dim and worn.

The mage sighed, then whispered "Shirak" in an almost tender voice. Light came from the tip of the staff that he used to keep his exhausted body from swaying. It was an unusual staff, magical without doubt since there was a dragon's claw at the end, holding a ball which had started to glow at the man's gentle word.

The mage took a deep, insecure breath. It was the breathing of a man who had just crossed hell; had called upon powers which would rip him into small pieces for blinking at the wrong time, only to torture his soul for eons. Still, he was alive, was able to stand here in the light of Nuitari and breathe the cold air which smelled of dust and spell components and - more than anything else - were home to him, home and security.

"Guardian," he whispered. Immediately two eyes appeared in front of him and reverently lowered their gaze.

"What can I do for you, Master?"

"Guard this room, and... tell me, what is my apprentice doing?"

"As you wish, Master. The dark elf returned to his room half an hour ago and has been deeply asleep since then."

Raistlin, Master of the Tower of High Sorcery, nodded with satisfaction. He had sent his exhausted apprentice to bed as soon as the invocation - and the subsequent appearance of an inhabitant of the dark planes of existence /between/ - had been successful. The dark elf had been shaking with exhaustion, and he had not been needed for the finishing sealing spells - if anything, he would only have endangered Raistlin.

And they all needed their strength... even Dalamar. His apprentice would be in bitter need of his strength, even if he had no knowledge of it just yet.

Raistlin's lips twisted into an amused smile. No, he knew nothing... he did not know that his Master had seen through his disguise from the very beginning. How gullible the elf was... and yet he was brave enough, determined enough, to make Raistlin feel some admiration. Oh yes, his apprentice had potential, and would be of great help to him... even if Dalamar did not know anything of the role he was to take until it was all played out.

With new determination Raistlin finally left for his own rooms. His staff lighted the inside of the tower for him, where so many had already taken a wrong turn and vanished forever. But Raistlin was the Master of the tower, was the Master of Past and Present, for whom the doors had opened, as it had been foretold. And the bottomless inside of the tower with its endlessly winding stairs of crumbling stone were as familiar to him as a favoured chair by the fire was to others.

He finally stopped at a simple, wooden door, and at the same time mocked himself for giving in to this folly. His apprentice was asleep, exhausted as he was - so what did he want here, in front of his door? Guard his sleep? Certainly not him...

Unbidden, a memory arose, a flickering shadow at the wall, the high voice of a child... "Look, Raist, bunnies..."

He snorted. He had not thought of his brother for a long, long time, so why now? Maybe he was too exhausted, the horror of the invocation still alive in his thoughts. He still trembled when he thought back to the inhuman voice, the decay and death everywhere around him...

His hands moved without his command to open the door to his apprentice's room. He entered soundlessly, while the light of his staff grew dimmer, until only a subtle glow was left. It showed vague silhouettes, a wardrobe, a table, and - in the corner - a bed. The curtain, which was drawn over the window above the bed, was open a small fraction, and through it Nuitari's light spilled in to play on the white skin of the dark elf.

Raistlin suppressed an awed sigh. He fought against himself, annoyed at what he was doing, and commanded himself to leave for his own bed so he would be well rested for the next day. But the temptation that emanated from the sleeping elf was stronger, even if Raistlin was not sure exactly what held him in such thrall. Finally he cast a weak sleeping spell on his apprentice, mocking himself at the same time for such a waste of his energy. Still, he could not help but feel the peace and serenity that took hold of him, as soon as he carefully sat down on the bed.

The dark elf lay on his side, turned towards Raistlin. A blanket of black silk covered his body up to his chest, his dark hair falling over his face and hiding the noble features of the Silvanesti. Raistlin's slender, golden fingers moved slowly towards his apprentice's face. He gently brushed the hair away in a motion that looked affectionate and protective, yet at the same time his golden eyes were still gleaming with mockery. For a short moment he closed them while his hand lingered on the elf's cheek. He frowned at himself, unable to accept why he was doing this. None of the reasons presenting themselves seemed sufficient. Not for him, not for a man of his ambitions... and yet his soul was weary after the exertions of this night.

With a sigh he finally gave in. He was too tired to keep on analysing his feelings, and if it would calm his soul to gaze at the beautiful, young elf, then that was what he would be doing.

He opened his eyes again and looked at the slender body through his cursed eyes. Ever since he had passed the Test as the youngest mage ever at the age of twenty-one, his body had been marked in this way. The golden skin, his bodily weakness, and the hourglass-shaped pupils that showed him how everything was changed by the passing of time. People aged in front of his eyes, leaves fell from trees and decayed, even mountains changed and vanished, if he looked long enough. That was the price he had paid for his magic; that was the price of his power.

He smiled. Not much longer... no, not much longer and this price would finally pay off. The price was not too high for what he would achieve in exchange... and until then he would content himself with watching the elf.

By now his apprentice was more than 90 years old and still had the look of a youngling who had just passed the border to man. In the eyes of his own people he was still a child; measured in human terms he still had an eternity of years to live, before even he would be touched by age.

And it was this blessing which neutralised Raistlin's curse. The passing of years did not touch Dalamar when the mage looked at him. Even seen through the hourglasses of Raistlin’s pupils, he kept his youth and beauty.

Sometimes Raistlin could not help thinking that the beautiful Silvanesti had been a gift of the Conclave, an apology perhaps for the burden they had inflicted on him. He refused to accept that thought, as Dalamar was indeed an eager and gifted student, whose dedication to magic was only exceeded by Raistlin himself. Yet still, from time to time - when the mage had seen too much death, too much decay – the ethereal beauty of the elf was like an anchor to him, a ray of light, which showed him that there was something that would reimburse him for his suffering.

  
And now too he could not fight the temptation of the graceful elvish body. Carefully he took hold of the black coverlet and pulled it off. He startled himself by gasping when he realised that the dark elf was completely naked. Maybe he had been too exhausted to dress in his night-clothes - yet Raistlin was too captivated by the Silvanesti's beauty to think about the reasons for his nakedness. All he could do was to sit motionless, gazing with something that resembled awe at the youth and life of the tender body, which had never before been bared to him like this.

Meanwhile, the other two moons of Krynn had risen. Solinari, the white moon, from whom the white robes were granted their power, and Lunitari, the red moon of neutrality. The light of all three moons combined and played over the body of the sleeping elf and immersed him in an ethereal light. For a moment Raistlin ceased to breathe, so beautiful was the creature before him. Dalamar did not seem to be his apprentice anymore, but instead a child of the moons, beloved of all the three moons of magic in the heavens.

Nuitari's light reverberated in his dark hair, which to Raistlin seemed as dark as the night sky on those rare nights when Nuitari alone was the solitary sovereign of the firmament.

Solinari's silver rays danced on his white skin, caressing him with tenderness and admiration.

And Lunitari, son of Gilean, god of neutrality, could not resist the charms of the young elf either and breathed a gentle kiss to tempting, rosy lips, which now opened slightly in his sleep, as if to beg for sweet caresses.

For long minutes, Raistlin was breathless and enraptured, unable to look away from this unique spectacle. Finally the temptation was too much; he could no longer bear to only watch while the light of the moons caressed his apprentice.

With shaking fingers he touched Dalamar's shoulder, ran them down a slender arm in admiration. The skin of the elf was soft, soft and warm, and so alive... After all the monstrosities his soul had to look in the face today, this beauty was too much for him. He felt as if somebody had cast a spell on him, yet he knew that on this plane of existence there was nobody left who held that kind of power. And yet his apprentice seemed to possess that power after all....

Carefully, Raistlin leaned his staff against the wall, and then tenderly caressed Dalamar's cheek with his other hand. The elf was still under the influence of his spell, and so he only sighed and turned further towards Raistlin, but that soft sound was enough to completely destroy the mage's control.

Raistlin leaned forward, until his silver hair mingled with Dalamar's black-as-night strands. He drew a deep breath. Almost he supposed he could be breathing the aspen scent of Dalamar's elvish home...

The lips of the young mage were trembling slightly; even in his magic sleep he seemed to sense the closeness of the other, and Raistlin bent down even farther, until his mouth chastely touched Dalamar's. Oh yes, as soft as he remembered it from their first meeting... Never would he have admitted it, yet he often caught himself thinking back to it. The kiss would not have been necessary, but Raistlin had been as unable to resist the rare beauty before him back then as he was today.

And it had been so long since he had felt the warmth of another being...

Tentatively, the black mage opened his mouth a small fraction. He told himself he only wanted to see if the elf indeed tasted the way the scent of his skin promised. But when his tongue ran over his apprentice's lips; when he partook of the taste that was a thousand times sweeter than Silvanost's best wine, all of his earlier concerns were forgotten. He could not stop here, not when the tender figure before him lured him with the promise of unspeakable wonders, when after an eternity, death and torment finally left him to let him feel desire...

Dalamar's eyelids fluttered but did not open, the spell continuing to work on him. Nevertheless he seemed to feel what was happening – and maybe he saw the same scene in a dream because now he was opening his mouth under Raistlin's, allowing his tongue access while he raised one hand to the mage's waist and let it linger there.

Almost timidly, Raistlin followed the invitation. He kissed Dalamar deeply, allowed the elf to entangle him in a sensuous game until his soul was drunk on the long-missed passion. Suddenly the warmth of the fragile body seemed to be a price more worthy than the reign over Ansalon, over all of Krynn...

…and in that moment he remembered. His plan, for which he had waited so long, gathering enough power to put it into action. And the power would be his, and not only Krynn but the gods themselves would get to feel it. No-one would be able to stop him, least of all himself.

As if he had burned himself he flinched away from Dalamar. The dark elf whimpered softly and moved restlessly, yet Raistlin could only stare at him in confusion. What had happened to him? What had been done to him? Whence came this weakness?

"I do not need you... I do not need anybody!" he whispered huskily, noting with surprise that his voice was trembling. Then the light of the moons outside the window attracted his attention, and he twisted his mouth into a grim smile.

"If that is your plan to stop me, then it is a truly pathetic one!" he hissed to the gods of magic. "You cannot stop me anymore, least of all with that! If I wanted I could enslave all of Silvanost, and you know it!"

A sound of fear from his apprentice drew his attention back to the bed. Dalamar had curled up on himself, and the mention of his home, from which he had been banished, had caused tears to run down his cheeks. For a moment, Raistlin felt compassion. He knew that for an elf, exile was worse than death. But then, just when he was about to soothingly brush away the tears from Dalamar's cheeks, he froze. He saw another boy cry, remembered the torment he himself had to endure day after day, and abruptly turned away.

"Nobody ever heard me cry. I have only ever had myself, and I will only ever have myself!" he whispered voicelessly and got up.

"Shalafi…"

For a moment he stopped when he heard the lonely and vulnerable voice of his apprentice, then he hastily grabbed his staff and left the room as quickly as his exhausted body would allow. Only when he had closed the door behind him did he sink against the wall, bereft of all his strength. Everything was turning in front of his eyes, Dalamar's flawless body, the moons, then an image of Takhisis who seemed to mock him...

"Nobody will laugh at me!" he hissed, and gripped his staff so tightly that his knuckles showed up white against his golden skin. With a single turn of his hand he ended the spell on his apprentice, then moved down the stairs to his room with painfully controlled steps. He had plans... and he would sacrifice everything for them. What did one more pain mean after he had survived so much torment already!

"And soon... soon this all will no longer matter..."

A smile appeared on his face, yet his eyes were still aglow with yearning.


	3. Fingerprints

"You spoke of my journey, Shalafi? I am not going anywhere -"

Raistlin’s smile did not change when Dalamar’s expression betrayed his realisation, and his sudden, harrowing fear. ‘I knew, apprentice, I knew about your betrayal from the beginning,’ he could have said, but he stayed silent, enjoying to simply watch the play of emotions on the dark elf’s face.  
Dalamar paled and took a step back. There were no words he could have used to defend himself. And what was there to say? He had taken the risk in full knowledge of what might happen, all for the privilege of being Raistlin’s student. The mages would never have allowed him to come here if they had not needed a spy. And so Dalamar told them what he knew of his Master’s plans, and at the same time eagerly worked to learn all the secrets of magic Raistlin was ready to share.

It was a daring game which Dalamar could only lose. But he accepted it for the power, for the magic... and for the possibility to be close to him.

Dalamar’s face lost even more of its colour. At least he had not shamed himself so completely as to let his Shalafi know about his feelings for him. That was his greatest, his best-guarded secret. The desire he felt for the touch of the mage, the shivers of arousal that shook him whenever he heard the soft voice of his Master.

Since their first meeting in the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth, he had allowed the powerful man to ensnare him deeper and deeper in a web that he would never be able to escape. And by now he no longer even wanted that; he had fallen for him body and soul.

At first he had told himself that it was only natural to be attracted to the most powerful man on Krynn. Until the day arrived when he realised that it was not the incantations that made his heart beat faster, nor the moments during which the Master of the Tower showed him the darkest secrets of the gods.

A dry battle of wills with Par-Salian, the head of the White Robes, that showed the intelligence of his master. Or a rare evening in front of the fire when Raistlin would tell his apprentice some tales about the Heroes of the Lance from his viewpoint – those were the moments when Dalamar realised that somehow this man had managed to steal his heart.

That expression made him blush whenever he thought of it, yet there were no other words for the continual pain that tormented him because the mage looked at him as his student only, and nothing more.

His Shalafi was no ordinary man, Dalamar knew that all too well, and if the mage had looked at him as a friend, a confidant at least, Dalamar would have been content. But the coldness in Raistlin’s eyes which was present at all times hurt him more than he would ever have believed possible.

The elf was slowly despairing. The burden he had to bear as a spy of the Conclave was becoming too much, had been ever since he realised his obligation was not towards magic anymore but to his own heart, and he had spent many nights unable to sleep, helplessly wondering if he should confess everything. But the memory of the coldness in Raistlin’s gaze stayed him. No, he would not be able to bear his Master’s derision...

…and now, when it was all too late, at least this torment would find an end. His slender body began to tremble as he watched the approaching mage. He dreamed of him, had dreamed of him for many nights, and just this morning he had been woken by the heat in his blood and a sticky wetness on his sheets. He had been so ashamed that he had immediately destroyed them by a spell. That had not happened to him for decades...

His Shalafi must never know of it. Dalamar knew only too well that the mage would see these emotions as weaknesses, a tool to control him. And although the dark elf would voluntarily do anyting his Master asked of him, he nevertheless wanted to be more than just a helpless puppet that would be thrown away after the work was done.

He had no hope anymore, and thus he did not even think of fighting when Raistlin stopped in front of him with a cruel smile and rested his fingertips on his chest.

The pain was so horrible that it blotted out everything else. Raistlin’s unaffected golden eyes were Dalamar’s only anchor, and he desperately clung to it so that he would not lose himself. His lips parted, but no sound came forth; the torment that rushed through his body took away his control over his senses. The only thing he could see were the eyes of his Shalafi, how they watched him without compassion, without hate. Something broke inside Dalamar at the thought that he did not even mean enough to his Master to be hated for his crime. Had the man only used him right from the beginning? Had all of this been planned?

Why did you kiss me? his soul screamed, Why give me hope when I mean less to you than one of your experimental creatures?

For one short moment an emotion flitted across his face, then it once again held the same guarded expression, like a mask wrought of gold.

"Relate to them accurately both what I have told you," Raistlin whispered, "and what you may have guessed. And give the great Par-Salian my regards... apprentice!"  
Dalamar fell to the ground when the mage turned away from him and went to the door.

“Why? Why did you kiss me?” he whimpered helplessly, and did not even realise that he had spoken this thought aloud. Raistlin heard him and flinched, yet he did not look back until the door fell shut behind him.

It was only then that his mask finally crumbled, and he had to lean against the wall because he was shaking. Had he been wrong? Was it truly possible that the dark elf felt more than only respect and fear for him? His thoughts went back to the previous night, to the tempting image of the naked young body on the bed.

“No... no, that is impossible!” he told himself, despair colouring his voice. “It cannot be, it is only a feint to distract me, because they know of my plans...”

There was no answer to his words apart from the agonised gasp behind the door, where his apprentice was ripping off his robe to find five bleeding, charred wounds on his body that looked like fingerprints.


	4. Farewell

It was still the same night when Dalamar left the mage’s conclave. He had told them what he knew about his Master’s plans, and in return would now be able to tell Raistlin about their arrangements. Everything had happened the way his Shalafi had planned. Par-Salian would send Crysania, the cleric, back to the time before the Cataclysm, together with Raistlin’s twin brother Caramon. In that time, powerful clerics still existed who would be able to save Crysania.

And thus, his Master would be able to use Crysania in the past as well.

Anger rushed through him at the thought of the Revered Daughter of Paladine, she who was so pure in her belief, who saw only the light, and - thus blinded - could not see her own darkness. It was almost too easy for his Shalafi to seduce her...

He bit his lip and leaned against his wardrobe. No, he should be honest to himself. It was not her false virtue, her arrogance, that angered him so.

It was envy and jealousy that took hold of him whenever he thought of her. Oh, he knew that his Master harboured no real feelings for her, and yet he gave her such attention... Raistlin needed her for his plan, and even if she would die at the end, she would still have known more closeness to his Master than he would ever be granted.

Involuntarily, Dalamar’s hands went to his chest, where blood was still trickling from five holes. The pain was almost unbearable, and yet he was grateful for his Master’s lesson. Never again would he allow himself the hope of wresting a semblance of feeling from the Master of the Tower.

The mage cared for nothing, nothing... except magic. And that was the way Dalamar should feel as well. It was a painful lesson, but it was necessary for someone like him who wanted to wield the same amount of power as his Shalafi did.

Dalamar had to smile despite the pain. No, not the same amount of power... He still believed that his Master’s plan was insane. To visit Takhisis, the Goddess of Evil, in the Abyss only to draw her into this plane of existence to kill her once and for all... His mind refused to consider that plan. And yet he knew that his Master was powerful enough, that he could be successful.

His hands clenched, and he knew that his legs would not be able to bear his weight for much longer. He was swaying as he held onto the wall, slowly moving towards the bed where he finally sat down with a moan.

No, the thought that his master could be successful scared him. He would become a God, would rule in place of Takhisis, and with a gruesome certainty Dalamar realised that his Master would not tolerate somebody like him. He would not tolerate anybody with power, this the mages knew as well, and like them Dalamar could only pray that their desperate plan would be successful...

“Apprentice...” a gentle voice close to him whispered. He turned around, his eyes widening with horror as he found his Master sitting on the bed next to him, dressed in his robe of black velvet. Dalamar’s heart needed a few heartbeats to recover from the shock, and during that time he could do nothing but fearfully look into the golden eyes.

“I see that you are back...” Raistlin softly said. “Tell me, what is the conclave planning?”

Dalamar was panting for air. He was in pain and exhausted; his face was white as chalk and his lips were trembling. The black mage sighed and all of a sudden a glass of brandy seemed to appear from nowhere in his hand. “Drink this, it will help,” he murmured and raised the glass to his apprentice’s lips. The dark elf swallowed obediently, and while the liquid was burning hotly down his throat, he fought against the feelings this seemingly tender and concerned gesture roused in him.

“Well... apprentice?” The ridicule in Raistlin’s voice was all too obvious, and for a moment Dalamar closed his eyes, feeling beaten. When he opened them again, they were cold and without expression; even the pain had been forced away.

“As you have foreseen, Shalafi... They will send Crysania back in time, to the Kingpriest of Istar before the Cataclysm. Your brother will accompany her...”

Raistlin’s cold, derisive laughter made him stop.

“Ah, brother, so you are still trying to protect me... So be it. I will grant you this wish.”

Dalamar felt how the remainder of his strength left him. The room began to turn in front of his eyes; he could no longer keep himself upright. But just when he thought he was about to lose consciousness, the arms of his Master came up to hold him and gently lowered him to his bed.

  
“We all have certain desires, don’t we?“ Raistlin murmured softly while his golden eyes held the elf captive. “I know the height of my ambitions... but what are yours? Tell me, what moves you to accept this risk? I know that you love the Art,” he added with wry amusement, “but certainly that cannot be all. Is it truly only the desire for revenge on your people, the control of Silvanost? I see it in your eyes, apprentice, you have changed lately.”

His eyes narrowed as a thought came to him, but Dalamar was too exhausted to see it.

“Perhaps it is my sister? Kitiara, the Dragon Highlord? Do you desire her?” He was annoyed by the thought that somebody else might touch the pale skin, might kindle flames of passion in the eyes of the dark elf. He leaned forward until his face was above that of his apprentice, so that Dalamar was forced to helplessly endure his gaze.

“Well? Is that true, Dalamar? Tell me, is it her you are dreaming of?“

The dark elf had paled even more, but he could not escape the eyes of the mage. “No, Shalafi, I could never trust her...” he whimpered, while the pain in his chest grew into an unbearable agony that made his eyes fill with tears.

Raistlin smiled. It was a dark smile, twisted and strangely triumphant. His sister would not get him, he would make sure of that, even if he himself had to hand over her lifeless body to Lord Soth. He would not be mocked ever again, would not be denied... he would be a God.

The elf was trembling with pain beneath him, and the heat of his body made Raistlin focus on the situation once again. He could feel Dalamar’s body arouse desire in him once more, the overwhelming need to bury his face in the dark hair and possess him completely.

When he realized that he could do just that, he carefully put his staff down. Nothing would stop him, neither the elf nor he himself. He would allow his lust to take over, and afterwards he would follow his plan. Once and for all he would prove that he was truly able to sacrifice everything for the magic. He had sacrificed his life, his brother, and now he would offer the heart of the only being that awoke tenderness in him.

Gently he ran his fingers over Dalamar’s chest, pretending that he did not hear the pained gasp when he came too close to the robe-covered wounds.

“Ah, but do you trust me...?” he asked softly while he hungrily took in the helplessness and confusion on the delicate features of the elf. Then he took hold of the collar of Dalamar’s robe and ripped it open, only to pull the black fabric off his shoulders.

The dark elf‘s entire body was trembling, his lips forming words that did not leave his mouth, while new tears glistened heavily on his lashes.

Raistlin’s lips moved tenderly over the wet cheeks until they finally found Dalamar’s mouth, still as sweet and warm as in his memories. But this was better than it had been last night... infinitely better, because this time the elf’s arms wrapped around his body to hold him tightly while his lips hungrily parted, teased, welcomed him.

Feverishly he bared the smooth skin of his apprentice and pressed himself against the body that was clinging to him. Although Raistlin’s robes moved against the wounds on Dalamar’s breast and soaked up the ever-flowing blood, the dark elf did not even seem to feel the pain anymore. He passionately drew Raistlin deeper into the kiss, waking unknown desires in the mage, until Raistlin too forgot his plans, his ambitions and even the magic. All that was important was the devotion in the brown eyes of the elf, the scent of heat and aspen leaves that arose from the sweaty skin beneath him.

Once the mage had shed his robe as well, Dalamar hid his face against Raistlin’s throat, whimpering. He clutched the thin body tightly,as if he were afraid it would only be another dream, or – even worse – that his master would turn from him with a taunting smirk any moment now.

But Raistlin would no longer have been able to do so. The arousal burned in his veins as only magic had done before, it made him go on and on, searching for something which all of a sudden hotly burned his body when the elf moved against him sensuously. Both of them gasped, the mage in surprise, Dalamar in desperation. Again Raistlin’s lips moved to seek out those of his apprentice, closing on them in a greedy kiss, and so hindered the words from escaping which Raistlin would never be allowed to speak.

There were still bitter tears running down Dalamar’s face, and yet he did not resist when slender, golden fingers pushed his thighs apart. This was what he wanted, yet still... all of a sudden his dream seemed to have become a nightmare.

He sobbed into Raistlin’s kiss when he finally felt him inside. Helplessly he moved beneath him, running his hand through the silver hair again and again while Raistlin held down his other hand next to his head.

The mage moaned and moved faster. For so long he had denied himself such passion that it now seemed too much for his human body to bear. The thought of hurting this man, to deny him love until he broke, was unimaginable. Nothing in Krynn, not even the Gods would ever be able to give him something as intoxicating as the trembling body beneath him.

If he had only known sooner what the longing in the eyes of the dark elf meant, if he had understood sooner that the power of the Queen of Darkness was nothing compared to the power Dalamar gave up so willingly...

The despair that made his apprentice cling to him fomented his own, lust and desire and yearning and finally an end to loneliness and coldness...

Ecstasy of the kind that had so far only ever been caused by an accomplished spell exploded in his blood all of a sudden, and was mirrored in the soft cry of the dark elf.

Raistlin allowed his exhausted body to rest in Dalamar’s embrace, while at the same time the doubts, the bitterness and the unquenchable thirst for power began to replace the temporary balm of peace in his head.

Feelings meant nothing in his world. Only magic counted, magic and power, and they did not suffer any rivals. Not even the beautiful dark elf...

Stiffly he moved out of his apprentice’s exhausted embrace. Dalamar was still trembling, but he could not utter a single word while his brown eyes watched his Master dress.

Raistlin bent down to take up his staff and walked towards the door. There he turned around again to give the sweat-covered elven body a cold look.

“You are weak, apprentice,” he whispered tauntingly, “because you still have not learned that there is nothing except the magic... But maybe it is enough for you to adorn the bed of a powerful person as their pretty plaything? My sister would certainly be interested...”

Dalamar lowered his eyes and felt how the agony in his chest made way for an emptiness that was somehow even more gruesome. But it promised calm and peace, and even if it was the peace of eternal frost, Dalamar’s broken soul now accepted it with gladness.

No tears would come, now that the door closed after his Master, no grief, no anger. His Master had done well, Dalamar had learned his lesson.

“No, I do not trust you...” he finally whispered in answer to Raistlin’s question. Kitiara, the mages, Raistlin – he would trust no one. He was alone, like his Shalafi had always been.


End file.
